


A Stolen Night

by 49Times



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels, First Time, Half-Sibling Incest, Jon/Ygritte mentions, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Smut, Technically cousins but they don't know that yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49Times/pseuds/49Times
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 6 x 09</p><p>Jon struggles to cope with Sansa's obligations to Littlefinger after the battle. He goes to her chambers to discuss his opinion on Littlefinger, but a whole mess of other feelings comes about as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stolen Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> This is my first time writing for this pairing- it's always been a guilty pleasure of mine, but the chemistry and feels between the two on the show of late has pushed me over the edge. I had to write it! Hope it's something you all can enjoy. 
> 
> Takes place after 6x09 but there's also a few tidbits from the 6x10 trailer if that alarms you. 
> 
> Fair warning to anyone who might be a Littlefinger fan- I despise him and have 0 sympathy for him at all. It comes across in this fic.

He feels sick. He hasn’t stopped feeling sick in days.

The Stark victory had come at a heavy price, too heavy to be cause for much joy- but today, three days after the battle has ended, the cost has grown even higher, and Jon isn’t sure he can take it. Winning back Winterfell was already so marred by the loss of their little brother, and no amount of punching in that Bolton bastard’s face or Stark banners flowing in breeze could make it a true victory. The pile of corpses outside the castle walls and the loss of good, courageous men weighed heavy on him. Though he took ale with those who’d survived on their first night in Winterfell, the attempt at celebration felt hollow, empty.

The losses they’ve faced are considerable, but they’re not at the front of his mind at present. The thing that has him feeling really truly ill- the thing that has his gut twisting, that’s robbed him of sleep and set him on edge in the three days since Wun Wun battered down the gate to Winterfell- _is him._

Littlefinger.

Jon knows, rationally, that none of them would be here, breathing, if she hadn’t sent for the knights of the Vale. He knows he’d be gone, and for good this time, and Ramsay Bolton would be sitting gleeful in his father’s hall still.

He knows he should be glad of that, and a large part of him is.

But now that he’s met Baelish and looked him the eye and watched him with Sansa, gods, he wishes more than anything that there had been another way.

 _Any_ other way.

He can’t bear the way he looks at his sister, the lack of restraint. Like a wolf circling a lamb.

Not that Sansa’s anything like a lamb. She’s every bit a wolf herself these noe, a she-bear, a lioness and anything that isn’t weak or timid or fearful. But even knowing her strength and courage, her _ferocity,_  Jon still grapples a constant fear for her, an urgent desire to protect her at all costs. For all he knows, she’s the very last of his family. She's been a shining light in his life since she came back to him. The only light. 

And now a threat looms over them, in the form of a man Jon barely knows but distinctly distrusts. 

From their first meeting, the sight of Littlefinger had set him on edge, and though he’d shaken his hands and thanked him for his service, the way Robb had been trained to do, and would have done- he felt an instant, intense dislike of the man. His dislike has grown tenfold over the past few days and by now he wants love nothing more than to set a wolf of his own on Baelish, to send him cowering away, far away- anywhere else. And then to send Sansa in the opposite direction, just to be safe.

He feels powerless. Utterly powerless. Even in the darkest moments of the battle, when he’d felt like he was drowning, it wasn’t quite so bad as this. There, he knew what to do. Get up. Fight. Keep moving. Stay alert.

Now, with the fight over, bodies burned and buried, it seems there’s nowhere left to move and he’s out of his element once again. Baelish is a conniving prick. Every rumor he’s ever heard seems entirely true now that he’s gotten a look at the smug face. He’s been cordial enough to Jon on the surface, but the undercurrent is plain enough to see. He’d much prefer it if Jon wasn’t there and wouldn’t give half a shit if Jon wasn’t anywhere at all. He’s got eyes for one resident of Winterfell, and one alone, and he didn’t ride North out of kindness alone.

Jon feels like he’s being crushed, just like he was on that battlefield, only here it’s the fear of losing her to another monster, when he’s just got her back that has him gasping for air. Baelish seeks to marry her. It’s plain as day. They spoke in the Godswood today, alone, and though Sansa hasn’t said it, Jon has seen the change in them. How much smugger he looks. How much stiffer she’s been.

Jon knows maneuvering out of this will be nigh impossible. Their backs against a wall but he’s not ready to give up on her, for her right to freedom from pain, for her right to not be anyone’s property. Gods know she’s earned it- proven she’s smart as well as strong- smarter and stronger than he is by far.

But she doesn’t have to do this. He’ll fight for her to his last breath. There’s no question of that- _but only if she lets him._ He’s got his doubts she will. Her words from before the battle still ring in his ears.

_No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone._

He hears them in his head over and over again, a reminder of how much she’s suffered that he can’t escape. Not when he’s awake. Not when he’s trying desperately to sleep. It’s been three days since she said it to him but he still feels their cut- sharp as any blade.

The world has made her so hard and so isolated. Her lack of faith in him stings, but he understands where it comes from- how her once trusting nature has been stamped into nothing. He wishes he could bring Ramsay back a thousand times just to be able kill him again and again. He’d met his end, and a hard one, but he deserved that and a thousand times more for what his foul hands and foul mind have done to a girl who once dreamed (annoyingly, he’d thought, all those years ago) of princes and golden knights and love worthy of songs.

But Sansa didn’t fall into that trap on her own. That fucker pulled the strings. Littlefinger knew. He was a man who’d spent his whole life knowing things, but he’d sent her into the arms of a monster anyway. He might never harm her like Ramsay had, might even have some sort of twisted version of affection for her, but Jon only had to look at him to know he was a man who served himself above all others.

It helped, of course, that Tormund had also muttered several dozen foul things about him too- _Bloody slimy prick that one is- Trust me, Snow. You may know fuck all about judging character but you’re right on this one. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him- which I wouldn’t mind doing, if my Lord Snow desired_ , he’d said, giving a great booming laugh at the thought. O _ff one of your bloody towers, if you like._ He’d gone silent after that, remembering what he knew of Bran a moment too late and quickly stuffing his face with bread to pass over the awkwardness.

Littlefinger is out to serve Littlefinger. He could take the least Westerosi wildling in the entire pack of them, the one least schooled in political games and they’d still fucking know that.

But now here Sansa is- willing to throw herself into another hell because she thinks this is her only move.

He can’t let her do it. It can’t be the only way.

Jon wants so badly to _shake_ her out of it, to look into her eyes and swear to protect her. He wants to say it loud enough or earnestly enough or often enough she’ll believe him. He wants to follow through on it, to make sure she’s protected until she’s old and grey and no one can ever hurt her again.

The twisting in his gut gets worse as he walks through the castle to her chambers. He’d rather face down a bloody army of wights than have this conversation, to feel like such an idiot and have her look at him like he is one, but he can’t just stand by.

He has to say it. He has to speak with her and make at least one last effort to get through to her. She’s all he has in this rapidly wintering world. He’s not going to lose her to someone he strongly suspects is every bit the monster Ramsay is, albeit a different sort. Not without a fight.

After a final moment of hesitation- of dread- he knocks gently on the door.

“Who is it?” she calls and when he replies he hears her padding across the room.

“Jon,” she says when she opens the wooden door. A flicker of worry crosses over her face. “What is it? Is everything alright?”

He feels himself flushing slightly, aware that it’s very late.

“Sorry. Yes. It’s- alright,” he says, though really it’s not. Everything about their current situation is entirely fucking not alright, but he placates her anyway. He’ll get to that, but there’s no sense in panicking her. “Nothing urgent. I just- wanted to speak to you.”

He feels bloody awkward, standing in her doorway like this. She’s clearly ready for bed, though several candles are still lit in her chamber, so he’s relieved that he hasn’t stirred her from sleep. He stares at her face, trying hard not to notice how much thinner the cotton of her night shift is than the thick winter clothes she’s been wearing, trying to ignore the curve of her breasts that is just about concealed by the long auburn hair, loose and free-flowing now, or the bare legs that poke out from beneath the sleeping gown. He hasn’t seen her in so little since they were children- years before Robert ever rode North.

“Come in,” she says, though she still looks a bit worried and confused. It’s hardly surprising. He’d sat beside her at dinner and had barely spoken a word to her despite having ample opportunity, and now he was outside her chamber at a far less appropriate time. She had to be curious about what brought him here now.

“I didn’t wake you did I?” he asks, coming in behind her and shutting the door. He knows he hasn’t but he’s not ready to talk about his real reasons yet. Hells, he’ll never be ready.

“No. I was about to try- but I don’t think it would have come any time soon, so don’t worry about that. Will you sit?” she asks. Gracefully- like she does everything- she sits down on her large bed. There’s a hot fire roaring close to the bed and a chair in front of it. She gestures at the chair, then picks up a comb, pulling it through auburn hair.

“Um,” he says, stupidly. He doesn’t want to sit. Not really. He walks over to a table instead, picks up a jug of something and realizes it’s only water. A pity, but he pours himself a goblet anyway for something to do other than looking at her sitting so comfortably atop her furs, night shift resting just above her knees.

“Jon, what is it?” she asks, somewhat perplexed.

He struggles to find the words, tosses several about in his head before coming out with just one.

“Littlefinger,” he says, and it comes out oddly strangled. She stops brushing her hair then and looks at him sharply.

“Jon, I’ve already _told_ you I’m sorry about that,” she sighs, haughty and frustrated. “I know I should have told you he was coming- or that I’d written to him. I said I was sorry and I meant it. Truly. I’m sorry, and I really will try to get better at trust. But I’m not sure what else you want me to say-”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says quickly. “I mean- today.”

Her posture stiffens and her jaw tightens. She knows what’s coming, and is steeling herself for it.

He swallows. It’s not going to be an easy conversation. But nothing about her ever was, save perhaps for that one glorious moment when they’d first thrown their arms around each other at Castle Black, breathing each other in, all warmth and love and forgiveness.

“Go on,” she says, expression impassive.

“You spoke with him in the Godswood today,” he says, and she offers him a silent nod. _Go on_. Of course she’s not going to bloody help him.

“He means to marry you, doesn’t he?” he asks and he feels bile in his throat. It’s not really a question. He’d seen the smug victory on Littlefinger’s slimy face when they’d emerged, and the way he carried himself all through dinner.

“Yes,” she says, stiffly. “He has proposed cementing our alliance with a marriage. We would, after all, all be dead without the troops he brought us.”

“And your answer?” he asks, not wanting to hear it but unwilling to avoid any longer it either.

“It seems to be the appropriate course, given our current situation,” she says, chin jutting forward defiantly.

He’s not surprised, but hearing it is still a heavy blow.

“Gods be good. Sansa, you can’t be serious,” he says, allowing his head to fall into his hand. He can’t look at her, can’t face this brave, beautiful girl willing to give herself to this circling vulture of a man, who’d sold her off to Ramsay knowing full well that he’d hurt her. It was a bloody miracle she was still standing, standing strong and bold. By any logic she ought to be a shell of a person by now, but there she is, willing to face everything that comes her way head on.

“Did you honestly think he rode North with all those nights of the Vale out of the goodness of his heart, Jon? For meat and mead for his men for three days? To tour the scenery?”

“Of course I didn’t. But, Sansa-”

“Nothing comes free, Jon. We’ve both learned that lesson several times over. His help came at a price.”

He can’t stand how calm she’s being, sitting on the bed, bloody statuesque while he’s got a storm inside him that’s quickly starting to spill over, a flood of rage and fear and anguish.

“No,” he says, slamming a fist against his palm. “It’s too high. That price is too high. Don’t do it, Sansa. If it’s a reward he’s after, we’ll find one. We’ll find something else.”

“There’s only thing that he wants, Jon.” She sounds weary, defeated, a slight break in her firm, solid voice. “He made it clear. Without support, we won’t keep Winterfell long. You said it. We have so many enemies. They won’t let us rest for long. We didn’t lose all those men, didn’t lose Rickon, to let it just slip away from us again. Our brother lost his life in the fight. I can make a sacrifice to keep it. He was very clear what his conditions are.”

He’s not surprised to hear how set Littlefinger is on claiming Sansa for a bride, though the clinical way she accepts it wounds him to hear.

He’s seen the way Baelish looks at her and has wanted to throttle him every single time he’s caught it. It’s not just a man who wants a marriage for power. He wants her for his own, wants to possess her even though she’s barely more than a child, even though he’d been raised as a child alongside her bloody _mother_.

It’s more than just politics with him. That’s plain.

Jon would have to be a blind man not to be aware of his sister’s beauty. Even as a child, they all knew she’d grow into a fine woman, it was all anyone ever seemed to say about her. Hell, it was all he really knew about her himself- his pretty sister ( _half-sister_ ) who turned her nose down at him and liked to sew and giggle about the castle with Jeyne Poole. But she’d grown more beautiful than perhaps any of them could have imagined.

At the Wall, she’d drawn the eye of every breathing man, and he’d been on edge the whole time, afraid that someone might be stupid enough to try something, despite her birth and his presence. He’d heard more than a few lude comments- in the halls and in the camps from wildlings and black brothers both, and threatened to geld more than a dozen of them.

But there was lust, and then there was Littlefinger. He’s captivated by Sansa like anyone else, but there’s something sinister and twisted in the way he sees her, something Jon can’t place or understand, but it fills him with icy fear.

What kills him, what really kills him is that _she_ knows as well. She loathes him for what he’s done and knows his intentions for her are far from innocent. She’s aware, and totally willing to accept that her fate should be linked to his.

No. He can’t let it happen.

“He’s _dangerous_ , Sansa. There’s something about him. It comes off in waves. He-”

“I _know_ he’s dangerous, Jon,” she says, annoyed, looking at him like he’s a particularly stupid child. “I’ve known him longer than you and better than you. I’ve seen him at work. I am aware.”

“Then figure out a way to keep him away from you. You don’t have to be a pawn anymore, Sansa,” he says, pleading, frustrated, desperate. “We’ll figure it out together.” _I’ll put a sword through his stomach if I have to_. “You can’t trust him.”

She’s sitting up straight on the edge of the bed now, angry like a cat.

“Oh, so suddenly _you’re_ an authority on who to trust? The commander murdered by his own men? Who didn’t even see it coming?” she spits, that rude, petty little girl he once knew back once more. For a moment he's back at Winterfell before the war, a boy.  

Her sharpness hurt back then, when she’d coldly referred to him as her half-brother and it hurts now. But he was angry and guarded then and only let it show when he was an idiot who had too much to drink at feasts. He’d bottled it up and had never once let her see how it really affected him.

But now he’s tired. And scared. Truly scared. His defenses are low and he can’t help showing how wounded he is on his face.

He’s tired of standing up and he moves over the chair, sagging into it, feeling helpless and lost in the face of this stubborn woman who has survived hell and is ready to jump back into it without even trying to figure out another way.

Sansa looks at him, sees how her words have stung she and immediately softens. He’s amazed by how quickly her face can shift from hard and fierce to soft and kind.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says, gentle now. “I didn’t mean to snap. I don’t mean....It’s just- I’m not happy about this either. I loathe him with every last fiber of my being. But I’ve thought it through and have come to terms with what I have to do. But not having your support isn’t making things easier. You're all I have.”

“Sansa, I’d support you in anything,” he says quietly. “I’d follow you to the end of the bloody world if you asked me. But I can’t pretend to be okay about it - to just stand by when you hand yourself over to a monster.”

“I’ve survived worse. I’ve survived _him_. Whatever he might do to me, it won’t be _that_ ,” she says, stiff and steely again.

“I don’t want you to _survive_ , Sansa” he cries, exasperated. “I want you to _live_. A life that’s your own. A life that’s bloody happy.”

She scoffs. “Happy? I outgrew that fairy tale long ago, Jon. I’m surprised you haven’t yet.”

She looks weary. Bruised. Older than she is.

“I suppose I haven’t. I don’t want to either. I have to believe it’s possible, one day. Otherwise what’s it all for? I’ve told you, Sansa. I’ve seen it. This life is all there is. You deserve someone who’ll look at you the way our father looked at your mother. Someone who’ll treat you like the lady you are- not like you’re a prize or a piece of bloody meat,” he says. “You deserve to be loved,” he says, his heart breaking for her.

“Love? I’m fighting a _war_ , Jon. Even if I believed it was- there’s no bloody time for that. Winter is coming, Jon. You’re the last person I should have to remind of that.”

Jon shook his head.

  
“No, Sansa. War, winter, Walkers, politics- they make it _harder_ to find, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be found or that when it comes that it’s not real and right and _good_ ,”

He says it earnestly, and she looks at him, expression sad, disbelieving.

“I found it, once,” he says, quietly thinking of Ygritte.

Sansa is quiet for a long moment, but then she asks “Your wildling girl?” and he lifts his eyebrows in surprise. He doesn’t remember ever mentioning her in Sansa’s presence. Hells, he’s not sure if he’s even spoken of her aloud since he said his goodbyes North of the Wall and burned her to keep her from turning into one of them.

“Tormund mentioned her once,” she says, slowly, cautiously. Like she’s not sure it’s okay. “Just in passing. He was talking about our lucky hair. How the wildlings say it’s kissed by fire. He said it’s funny how the ones kissed by fire always seem to flock to Snow’s side. Him. The Red Priestess. Me. Her. Ygritte?” she says, unsure and he nods. There’s intensity in her gaze, and though he’s told her so much about his experiences since they parted, she’s something he left out. He’s not sure why, but he can tell she wants to know.

“He didn’t say much more than that,” she says quickly, wondering probably, if she’s overstepped a line. “Said it wasn’t his tale to tell. And then proceeded to tell me a ghastly one of his own about a bear,” she added with a shudder and a smile. “Not many details were spared.”

“He didn’t! I’ll have his bloody head for that,” Jon says, shaking his head, but half-laughing at the idea of poor Sansa being subjected to that. Still, if she had to spend time with wildlings when he wasn’t there to supervise ( _When was it?_ He wondered) better it be Tormund than anyone else.

But Sansa’s gone quiet again, and watches him for a moment before asking, “What was she like?” A pause, then, “I mean, only if you- if you want-”

He nods, to let her know he does, that he will, but he still takes his time to find the words.

“I could use all the words to know to describe her and it still wouldn’t make her even a fraction as real as she was, but- well I’ll tell you about her as best as I can. She was fierce. Strong. Funny. A lot like Arya. A lot like you, come to think of it,” he adds, thinking of the woman she’s become. “Brave. Ruthless. Often rude. Liked to put me in my place.” he teases and she smiles.

“Seems I’d have liked her quite a bit then,” she nods, approving and he feels some of the tension go out of his shoulders as they ease back into something a little lighter and warmer than they’ve had in a while.

He finds himself speaking of Ygritte, like he never has, in more detail than he’d ever thought he’d tell any of his family, let alone the sibling he’d been least close with in his youth. As he tells the tale of their meeting, their love and their parting, she almost looks like that little girl who loved stories again, the one he’d known mostly from afar.

When he finishes, her eyes are shining with tears. His are as well, but he finds he’s not as embarrassed as he thought he’d be. It feels good, to have it out there. To have a person who knows how fiercely and deeply they loved each other, even though it ended in so much pain.

“Thank you,” she says. “For sharing that.”

“Thank you for listening,” he says. “That’s the first time I’ve spoken of her since I lit her pyre.”

“And-” Sansa says, a bit strained. She blinks and swallows, then gets to her feet. “Thank you for wanting something that good for me.”

She pads across the short distance across from her bed to the chair where he sits and cups his face in her hand. “You’re a kind man, Jon. The kindest man there is. I wish our father could see the man you’ve become,” Her fingers are slender, soft and warm, and when she lets them drop away, he feels a twinge of regret, of loss.

She stays close though, standing above him. Her hand finds his shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you for thinking I deserve more than bloody Littlefinger. Maybe I’ll get it someday. But for now, I need to proceed within a manner that keeps him on our side. You have to understand that. You know better than anyone what’s coming. We won back our home but we won’t keep it long. Not without help. If we lose the fight against what’s beyond the Wall, there’s no happiness, no- love- no _anything_. For _anyone_. It’s all gone. Am I wrong?”

All he can do is stare up at her, because she’s bloody right- she’s _been_ right about so many things and he can’t take it.

“Oh Jon. You look like that sullen boy moping about the castle again. Please, don’t look so glum. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, but I’ve learned how he works. Littlefinger is smart. Cunning. Dangerous. But whatever it is he feels for me- it’s allowed me to get close. I’ve seen how he operates. I’ll tread carefully. I’ll be smarter. I’ll be more cunning.”

Jon wants to believe it, but can’t.

She tries humor, running affectionate hands through his hair. “Besides, if all my past marriages and engagements are anything to go by, this won’t stick long,” she says, and it’s almost enough to make him crack a smile.

“I’ll be here. I’ll be close. He won’t want it, but I’ll find a way to stay by you, for as long as you need. You say the word and I’ll make _sure_ it doesn’t bloody stick. I’ll have his head on a bloody spike.”

She smiles, but he catches a slight roll of her eyes. She might care for him, but she still thinks he’s rash and stupid and probably that she doesn’t need him.

“Thank you, Jon,” she smiles. “It will be okay. _I’ll_ be okay. Whatever it’s like, it won’t be like it was with Ramsay and if it does I’ll be the one putting his head on a spike. I can do this. Remember what you said? About trusting each other? Trust me.”

He nods. “I do. I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m sorry to have kept you up.” He gets to his feet and she takes half a step back to give him room, but she’s still bloody close. She’s had a bath and he catches the floral scent of her hair, and has to work to keep his breathing normal. “I’m- I’m sorry for sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m- _ooof_ ,” he says, half laughing as she throws her arm around him in a fierce, sudden hug that nearly makes him stumble back into the chair.

“Don’t be,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “Don’t be _sorry_. Idiot. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had someone care about me this much? Don't be sorry.”

He doesn’t know what to say, finds a lump forming in his throat at the ferocity of her words. He’d returned her hug at first, but slackened his hold after a few moments, sure that it would end soon.

But she hasn’t loosened her grip, not even a little. She clings to him, her body still pressed flush against his, and he is starting to be affected by it in a way no brother ought to be, half-brother or otherwise.

He is just about to gently push her away, before things get deeply embarrassing when she speaks again.

“You could _show_ me,” she says quietly, and his entire body stiffens in her embrace- except for his head, which starts bloody spinning.

“What?” he half-gasps into her fiery hair, heart threatening to thump out of his chest. He pulls back and gapes at her. He has to have misread. Or misunderstood.

“Show me what it’s like,” she says, meeting his eyes with that strength and confidence she seems to greet everything with, again with that slight air of impatience that makes him feel foolish and slow-witted. But there’s no way she could mean-

“Tyrion never touched me. And Ramsay. Well. You know what he is. What he was. Jon, I’ve never even been kissed- not in a way I’ve wanted to be kissed. I’ve heard ladies talk of what it’s like, when it’s nice- when it's with _someone nice_. Someone you care about. I find it hard to believe it, but you say it’s real. You’ve experienced it. _Show me_.”

For another while, he can only gape at her, but she’s still in his space, close, maintaining eye contact, close enough that his only choice is to either fall back into the chair or push her away to get more space.

“Sansa- that’s- I can’t- we-”

“Can’t you?” she says, eyes flickering down to the front of his breeches pointedly. There’s some very obvious tenting happening, and he thinks, cringing with embarrassment, that he really should have ended hug end much faster. Gods, the fire might be fairly hot, but it’s not hot enough that he should be _sweating_.

“I’m- you’re my-”

She shrugged. “Nothing can ever be viler or more wrong than what he’s done to me. Soon enough I’ll be married to another man I’d prefer to never have touch me. I’d like to feel it once. What it’s like, with someone- someone you _love_ ,” she says, earnest. “Someone who cares about me. Who wouldn’t ever hurt me.”

_Gods._

He can’t believe this is real. He’s dreaming. He has to be.

“You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?” she asks, jaw defiant again, stepping a little closer, pressing the attack. He feels like a bloody boy trying to fight off their Master at Arms when he decided they needed a challenge. Helpless.

“Of course not,” he says. “But- but that doesn’t mean I’ll- That I should- you’re-”

“I’m not a child,” she says.

“No,” he says, very seriously, trying not to think of the body beneath that thin, loose fabric that she's offering him freely. “You are certainly not. But you’re the Lady of this house-”

“I’ve got no virtue left for anyone to take, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says, a note of disgust in her voice. “Someone’s already made sure of that.”

Jon shakes his head violently at that, hating to hear her speak of herself in such a manner.

“No. You’ve got nothing but virtue, Sansa,” he says and means it. “Whatever he did to you, he couldn’t take that away. And he hasn’t. It’s beyond his power. But I - _still_ \- you’re a highborn woman and- I’m your-”

“I’ve told you what I want," she says, a challenge. "I meant it. I don’t want excuses that have anything to do with _me_. You claim I've got the right to choose freely, to not be a pawn. This is what I'm choosing right now. The rest of the choice is yours, Jon. Either you want it too, or you don’t,” she says daring him to deny her, as haughty as she is beautiful.

He stares at her, at those sparkling eyes a man could drown in. He stares at that soft, warm mouth she says has never had a proper kiss before, and he knows he’s as lost now as he was the day so long ago another fierce redhead decided she wanted him for her own. 

That had been a brief thing, with Ygritte but beautiful, and he feared this would be briefer still. Forces greater than themselves had torn him from Ygritte, and they'd pull him from Sansa too. The thought of knowing her, _like that,_ and losing her again is unbearable.

But he'd promised more than once to do anything for her, and this would be so easy to give. 

Any attempt at resolve crumbles to dust. He steps closer, bridging that small gap between them and kisses her hard on the mouth, a hand at the back of her head, tangling in her lovely, soft hair. It’s been so long since he’s felt lips on his, and he sinks into hers. He feel them part, but after a hazy, blissful moment realizes it might not be for him so much as _because_ of him. She is not his eager, experienced Ygritte. She might just be surprised. She might be terrified.

He pulls back quickly, horrified with himself for his lack of restraint. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I shouldn’t have- was it too much? Too fast?”

Sansa does seem a little surprised, touching a hand to her slightly parted lips, but soon she smiles, a sweet little smile, “Maybe a little. I mean- you had just been protesting rather hard just a few moments before.”

“I know,” he says, sheepishly. “But- you make a compelling argument. If it’s truly what you want, Sansa, I’m yours. For whatever you want. However you’ll have me.”

“Good,” she says, and leans forward, pressing a softer, more tentative kiss to his lips. He reaches his hands around to the small of her back, slowly, gently, pulling her closer. Any voices in his head trying to remind him that this is wrong are silenced as she increases the pacing of their kissing, as she allows him to glide his tongue past pink lips, allows his hands to stroke along her body, finding places to rest on her soft hips or running through her hair. 

He gets rid of his cloak and his boots, a task slowed by considerably by his unwillingness to pull away from her for even a moment. She helps a bit with the cloak, also too frantic for him to do it any way but blindly, but he’s on his own for the boots. They stumble over to her bed, hands roaming over each other, mouths exploring each other more deeply.

For a long while, they do nothing but kiss atop the furs. His cock is raging inside his breeches, but he forces himself to have restraint, to allow her to fully enjoy and saver this thing she’s never known, to work up her courage towards anything more- if she decides that’s what she wants at all. It takes effort, not to move to fast, when the last person he’s been with approached everything with such zeal and fervor.

His hands stroke her legs, pale, slender, beautiful legs, but he’s cautious never to go above mid-thigh. He longs to get there, further, and he thinks he will, but he must wait. His fingers ghost across her belly, but don’t explore her breasts until she takes his hand in her own and places it there. He squeezes at it then, through her night shift, applying a soft pressure to a pert nipple and delighting in the way she gasps, bucking up against him. 

  
“Is this okay?” he asks, often, and is usually greeted with an emphatic yes, or a hard, impatient kiss that answers it just as clearly.

Eventually, his aching cock urging him on, he attempts to take it a little further. He pulls back slightly, holds the bottom of her night shift and moves it upwards, ever so slightly. “Can we take this off?” His fingers stroke her leg and he tries to convey with gentle eyes that whatever her answer is, it's okay.

She bites her lip then, looking hesitant for the first time. “Can you- can you go first?”

She looks embarrassed, a flush coloring her cheeks further than the heat of their bodies working together already has.

“Of course,” he nods. He gives her a sly look. “Do you want to help?”

She smiles, nods and helps him tug off his shirt. His chest is covered with scars, from various fights, from the attack by the night’s watch, and cuts from the battle for Winterfell. She stares at them, and her hands come up cautiously, soft fingertips tracing over the ones that aren’t recent, and he understands why she wanted him to go first.

“You’re nearly as damaged as I am,” she says in small voice, and his heart nearly shatters.

He takes her face in his hands, stares into her eyes to try and tell her how much he adores her strength and beauty, kisses her with all he has in the hopes she might understand how deep his love for her has grown in the short time they’ve been reunited.

"But you're still here," he says. "And every day bloody day I thank whatever grace is responsible for bringing you back to me."

He trails soft kisses along her neck, where he knows she especially likes his mouth,  but fights the temptation to stay to long in any spot, lest he leaves a mark.

It relaxes her, breaks up some of the tension, and soon enough she unlaces his breeches, freeing his cock and leaving him in his small-clothes. Then, with just a moment of hesitation, she reaches down and pulls off her own nightgown in a swift movement, flinging it aside on the furs.

Jon can’t help the way his eyes widen at the sight of her, nude before him. Her beauty, the curves of her lovely, pale body and her milky breasts are something to behold, but they’re not what have his attention, at least not at first. He's been aware, loosely, of what she's suffered at his hands, but hearing stiffly shared details and seeing them before his eyes are entirely different things. Boiling rage builds up in him and he wishes he’d gotten a hundred thousand more punches into Ramsay’s face before he allowed Sansa her turn with him.

But she’s watching him watch her, and he knows he has to temper his reactions, to be careful. “Gods, Sansa,” he says, reaching forward, and pulling her close to him, hugging her tight into his chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says into her hair. He’s said it a dozen times already, in between desperate kisses, but he knows this is the one that really matters. He feels her shaking slightly in his arms, and for a while does nothing but hug her tight against him, til he’s sure she feels safe and warm and loved enough.

Then he pulls back, pushes gently at her shoulders to get her to lie back, and begins to run kisses down her elegant neck, her collarbone and down her torso, trailing across her breasts and belly, trying not to flinch at the scars, trying not to dwell on the horrors of her past, focusing on giving her this one good, warm memory to hold to.

  
When he reaches the soft ginger curls at her cunt, he pauses, looking up at her. She’d been laying back with her eyes closed, moaning and sighing at his kisses, but she opens them to meet his eyes.

“Can I touch you here?” he asks, and she nods. He runs a finger across the length of her pink slit, and she jumps at the touch, gasps, but then settles, seeming content. He’s pleased to find she’s already soaking down there, warm and wet for him, and Jon is glad that the Bolton monster has left her capable of feeling the pleasure he longs to give her there.

She seems just as surprised as Ygritte had been when he first puts his mouth on it. Just as a surprised and just as receptive. He loves the way she grips hard at his hair, the scrape of her nails on his skull. He brings her to her full like that, and his own breeches are embarrassingly wet by the time she comes, softly crying out his name, her hands tangled up in his curls.

Later, when they’ve recovered, he asks if she wants more- if she wants the rest.

She agrees, but he finds himself much more terrified of hurting her at this point. He also knows that all the rest up til now could be excused, forgotten even- but if he does this- a certain line will be crossed, and they can't uncross it. He hopes she won’t regret it by the light of day, but he knows he won’t.

Hells, she’s all he has in the world. She’s kind and soft and beautiful, and if there are gods somewhere, frowning upon their union, he’d like to know where their disapproval was when Ramsay Bolton had her in his foul clutches, when he viciously scarred this lovely, pure, incredible woman inside and out for his own twisted pleasure. If they hadn't seen fit to intervene and save her from that, he can hardly believe this will bring them down, this act of love between two people who would never harm each other.

If she wants it, he does. If she wants it, not a thing can stop him from moving forward.

And she does. He’s overly cautious at first, not wanting to trigger any of the violence and terror she felt when she was with Ramsay, and at first it’s slow, soft, loving. He makes an effort not to let too much of his weight on her, continuing to ask if she’s alright even as it becomes a greater and greater struggle to choke out words.

“I’m not made of glass, Jon,” she says eventually, right in his ear. He grins at the haughty impatience and she nips at his earlobe- rather hard. He hisses, surprised and aroused by the fierceness coming out in her. His next thrust is harder, goes deeper, and her slender legs wrap tight around him, pulling him closer.

It’s passionate, it’s heated and it’s over all too soon. He stays with her after, holding her in his arms and never wanting to leave. He left that bloody cave with Ygritte, and both wished they’d never remained there before the end. If only he could stay with her in this bed, for this night and all the nights to come.

They fuck once more before the morning, slow and sleepy, but they enjoy it, knowing this one will be the last. 

He stays longer than he should, just wanting to hang onto her for a little longer. When the first inklings of light start to poke through her thick curtains, he gives her a little nudge, for she’d been dozing in his arms.

  
“Sansa,” he says. “Sansa, love. I’ve got to go. The day is coming. We can’t be found.”

Already he’s starting to feel the grip of fear that borders regret ( _but no, he doesn't regret this, not even a little_ ). Still, if word of it were to get back to Littlefinger, he shuddered to think what might happen. Perhaps he might care for Sansa, might even love her in his twisted way, but neither of them would dare to hope he’d take her bedding down with another man lightly. And he has ears everywhere. The thought chills him and he struggles out of her embrace beneath the furs, and into the cold of the room.

“I know,” she says quietly, sitting up in bed,  blankets pulled around her in the morning chill. “Jon, thank you. I-”

“Shhh,” he whispers, kissing her quick on the mouth. “We’ll talk- later. When it’s safe. I have to go.” It won't be long until one of her chamber maids is along, and while House Stark once had loyal men and women in its halls, treated kindly and honorably by his father, there's no one in this castle he's willing to trust. 

“Alright. Go,” she nods, and watches him dress with a soft expression, drinking him in while she can.

“Gods, I love you,” he says, coming back for one more kiss, this one deeper and harder to break away from. He finds himself starting to sink back down, and its her who has the sense to stop him now.

“Later,” she says firmly, giving him a slight push toward the door and he goes, but he can’t resist stopping by the dwindling fire and adding a few sizable logs to it, so it's warm and roaring again. It’s worth it, for the adoring look on her face when he stands up straight again and meets her eyes.

Cautiously, he opens the door, looks both ways down the hall and makes for his chamber, his heart a strange mix of achingly full and achingly empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love!
> 
> *ETA the response to this fic has been so warm and kind already. I stayed up far later than I should to get it posted and woke up to the sweetest comments. I hadn't *really* planned on doing a sequel, mainly because I'm a bit lazy re: plotting and I got out the bulk of the story inside of me, but...well I'm willing to try to give you an ending that's satisfying, as soon as I can!


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